


Known Seismic Risk

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Castiel, M/M, Past Cas/Balthazar, Rock Star Dean, Tattooed Castiel, Tattooed Dean, ex-porn actor castiel, i love them, look at these assholes, reference to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 01:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14201958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: Dean's feeling rough after one of his least favorite things in the world -- a long international flight -- but keeping his head in the business part of the music business is part of why his and Sam's band Hunters has been so successful over the years.  But when an afternoon that should be all about contract negotiations and meetings goes weird, he finds himself face-to-face with someone he never expected to meet.





	Known Seismic Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Dean/Cas Tropefest Mid-Winter 5k. Sibling inspo from [this tweet](https://twitter.com/babybirdcas/status/969002544629469184). Also, while I'm not at all affiliated with purgatoryjar, [this piece of art](https://purgatory-jar.tumblr.com/post/171601687767/castiel-angel-of-grumpy-morning-coffee-patron) showed up on my dash mid-write, as if it had been literally plucked from my notes.

“Floor?”

“Sixteen.” 

Dean barely looks up from his phone long enough to press the button.  He’s jet-lagged to hell, running on coffee and fumes, but here he is anyway in sunglasses and the cleanest pair of jeans he could find because he’s a goddamn professional.

He slips his fingers under the frame of his sunglasses to rub his eyes as the doors close and the car starts to move.  

“Rough night?”  

“Short night, rough day yesterday.  Fourteen hours, three airplanes.” He glances over at the other guy, lets his eyes linger.  The guy’s also dressed for comfort -- jeans, hoodie -- but it’s easy to see he’s built. He also looks familiar, but that’s Los Angeles.  Certain parts of town? Everyone looks familiar. 

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” the guy says.  

Dean shrugs and gestures vaguely with his Starbucks cup.  “Better living through chemistry, right?”

The guy huffs out a little laugh.  Dean smiles, raises his cup, and takes a deep slug of his Americano.  Well, he starts to. The cup barely touches his lips before something gives an alarming creak.  The floor lurches suddenly, and Dean sputters and drops his phone as he tries to clutch the rail.  

“Hit the buttons.”

Dean blinks.  “What?”

_ “Buttons!” _

So he does.  With both hands -- Americano still clutched awkwardly in his right -- every button to every floor, struggling to keep his balance as the whole car rattles.  Nothing.

And then the lights go out.

_ This is it,  _ he thinks, stumbling back, losing his grip on his coffee as he drops into a low crouch. _  This is how I die. _

The emergency lights click on as the tremor ends.  It takes him a minute to notice, the adrenaline half whiting-out his vision for a second before he gets his bearings.  When he does get a handle on things, he notices that Hoodie Guy is at the panel, jabbing at the EARTHQUAKE button to no avail.

“There’s a button for that?”

“It’s supposed to take us to the nearest floor and open the doors.”

“Maybe it’s fake.”

Hoodie Guy turns around to look at him, brow furrowed.  “ _What?_ ”

“Like the ‘Close Door’ button.  It doesn’t do anything, but they put it there to make us feel better.”

“That’s ridiculous.”  

“It’s true.  Google it.”

Hoodie Guy rolls his eyes and turns back to the panel, moving on from EARTHQUAKE to the emergency phone button.  There’s a short recorded message before the line connects. Dean listens as the operator tells them what they already know: authorities are being notified, stay where you are until a technician or emergency services retrieves you, blah, blah, blah.  

Dean gathers up his phone, hangs his sunglasses in the collar of his v-neck, and sits his now-empty coffee cup upright along the wall of the elevator.

“So, uh.  Guess we’re in here for a while.” He stands, extends a hand.  “I’m Dean.”

“Castiel.”  

“Stage name?   

Castiel laughs.  “Uh, no.”

“Right on.”

There’s a pang of disappointment in his chest when they release hands.  Now that they’re face-to-face, it’s impossible not to check Castiel out.  Definitely built under that hoodie, rumpled hair, just the right amount of stubble.  And damn, he  _ knows  _ he’s seen this dude somewhere before--

“So.  Jet lag.”

“ _ So much _ jet lag.”  Dean groans, lets his head drop forward for a second before looking up.  “I was recording in Berlin for a couple of weeks which, uh...well,  _ Berlin  _ is great, but, uh.  Kind of a nervous flyer.”  

“You’re a musician.”  

He shrugs.  “So they tell me.”  

“What do you play?”  

“Guitar.  Some drums.  Little bit of everything.  My brother Sam and I used to be able to track a whole album together on our own, but he’s taking a break.  Law school.” He shifts on his feet, suddenly aware that he’s blushing. Which is ridiculous. “What’s your gig?”

“I write.”  

Dean raises his eyebrows.  “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”  Castiel nods, then gestures at the dry side of the elevator.  “Do you, um-- Shall we sit? Like you said, it might be a while.”

“Oh!  Yeah.”  He rubs the back of his head.  “Right.”

Dean shrugs out of his jacket, picks a dry bit of floor, and watches Castiel settle in.  They sit in silence for a while, both fiddling with their phones in the vain hope of finding signal.  It’s Dean who breaks first, dropping his phone on his jacket.

“Look, this is going to sound weird, but you look super familiar.  Did something you wrote get optioned or something?”

“Uh, no.”  Castiel lowers his phone.  “I mean, that’s why I’m in LA right now -- we’re trying to make that happen -- but, uh...no.”  

“Well,  _ that’s _ mysterious.”  

“Is it?”  Dean’s not sure how to interpret the look Castiel fixes him with: half defensive, half curious.  After a moment he purses his lips, then seems to come to a decision. “I don’t suppose the name Angel Drazen rings a bell?”

“Angel Drazen?  I don’t--” he starts to say, brow furrowed, but his mouth stops cooperating when the penny drops.  Castiel’s hair is shorter, and he’s a little older, but Dean wonders how he didn’t see it sooner. Holy shit,  _ Angel Drazen.   _

Maybe in fairness he wasn’t always looking at Angel Drazen’s  _ face  _ all those times he hit the Pay-Per-Porn on tour, but...

“If the next thing that comes out of your mouth is you didn’t recognize me with my clothes on, so help me, I will climb out through the ceiling.”

“Yeah, no,” Dean says, flustered.  “I wasn’t. Um. I mean, the tattoo would have helped.”  

“Of course,” Castiel says wryly.  “The  _ tattoo. _ ”  

“Hey, when a guy has a huge pair of wings across his back, it makes an impression.  If I hadn’t already been halfway into a pair of sleeves the first time I saw you, I’d have copied it on principle.”

“Show me.”  

“Huh?”  

“Your tattoos.”  Castiel says, tilting his head to the side.  “You’ve seen mine. It’s only fair.”

Dean pauses.  Nods. “Yeah, okay.”

He sits up on his knees and reaches back for the collar of his t-shirt.  He’s got a hell of a case of butterflies going in his belly which, okay, everything about this situation is weird and getting weirder.  

(Also, he might be kicking himself that he hasn’t been hitting the gym as hard as he should.  But hey, fuck it.)

Dean pulls his shirt off over his head and drops it on top of his jacket, then turns back to Castiel with what he hopes is a charming, relaxed grin and not some sort of deer-in-the-headlights rictus.  He holds his breath, watching as Castiel moves into his space to look him over. He takes his time, peering at the slightly regrettable red tribal on Dean’s inner forearm, the more intricate geometric bands at his wrists, the portrait of his mother.  And scattered through and around are dozens of symbols and lines and objects from books and stories he loves.

Castiel points at the sunburst star on his chest.  “What’s that one?”

“This?”  Dean says, looking down at it.  “That’s from when we got signed.”

“Your band?”  

“Yeah.”  The memory makes him smile.  “We inked the contract and then basically went straight to the first tattoo place we could find.  And then we spent the rest of the night in a Denny’s drinking way too much coffee and planning out how awesome the rest of our lives were going to be.”

“And has it been awesome?”

He shrugs.  “Can’t complain.”  

Castiel starts to speak, but jolt of an aftershock startles them both.  It doesn’t last as long as the first tremor, but it’s strong enough that Castiel grabs onto him for support, and Dean reaches out to steady him.    

They don’t separate right away after the tremor.  Maybe it’s caution or something else, but Dean guiltily lets himself enjoy the moment.  Castiel’s hands are broad and strong, he’s warm, and he smells good, and--

“Do they all have stories?”

“The tattoos?”  Dean blinks, looks down.  “Some of them. All of them  _ mean _ something.  Like this one --” he points at the silhouette of an impala springing from the front of his shoulder toward his collarbone “-- is for my first car.  She’s beautiful. A ‘67. I don’t get to drive her much because she’s huge and hard to park, but I lived in her for a while, and wanted to bring her with me wherever I went.  And this one--”

A woman’s voice from the intercom on the panel cuts him off.  “Hello? We got an emergency call from this car. Are you still stuck inside?”

Castiel moves away, scrambling for the panel.  “Hello! Yes we are.”

“Okay, then.  You just sit tight.  We’ll be up there in a jiff.”  

“Thank you,” Castiel says, then lets go of the intercom button.  He looks back toward Dean, an odd expression on his face.

“I should probably put my shirt back on.”

“Yes.”  Castiel sighs.  “That’s probably for the best.”  

Dean’s halfway back into his clothes when Castiel steals his phone.  

“What’s your passcode?”

“What?”  He tugs the hem down and looks over his shoulder, confused.

“Passcode.  Unless you don’t want my number.”  Castiel frowns, taps at the screen.  “Never mind. Got it.”

“Dude, what the hell?”

“Your car’s a 1967.  Four digits.” He furrows his brow, thumbs tapping rapidly before handing Dean his phone back.  “There. I’d text myself for yours, but that would be presumptuous.”

“Right.”  Dean’s about to say something else when the elevator clunks back to life and begins to move.  A moment later, the doors open to reveal a harried looking pair of firefighters -- one blonde and grinning, the other dark haired and vaguely put-upon.  Almost immediately, both Dean and Castiel’s phones begin to ring.

“And that’ll be my agent.”  Castiel sighs. “Nice meeting you, Dean,” he says, then darts down the corridor, phone pressed to his ear.  

 

#

 

He’s barely in the door and taking his shoes off when his sister calls out to him from the kitchen.  

“How was the earthquake?”

“It was an earthquake,” Cas answers, tucking his sneakers onto the little shelf. He dumps his socks next to it -- which Abby hates, but whatever -- and goes to join her.  “What about you? How was your day?”

“Long.”  She gestures toward a precariously tall stack of files on the breakfast nook table.   “Cain’s on indefinite leave, and his assistant didn’t bother to come in this morning. I spent half the day fielding calls for the rest of the Criminal Division, and the other half screaming at people about not being their secretary.”

“And lo, did Abaddon the Destroyer bring a plague upon their houses...”  

She rolls her eyes and grabs a mug out of the cupboard.  “Want some coffee?”

“Actually, I was thinking about settling in.”

“Before midnight?”  

“I got searched at LAX, and SFO was an absolute shit show,” he grumbles.  And then he grabs a mug of his own. “Fine. One cup.”

“There’s my little brother.”  She pours their coffees, and they settle in on the floor next to the the breakfast nook.  “So I’m guessing the day was a wash.”

“Surprisingly, no.  I don’t know what kind of deal he made, but Crowley got us bumped to the afternoon.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”  He sips his coffee.  “It’s too early to know anything, but the meeting went well at least.  Television is apparently just as slow as publishing, but with additional idiots in the room.”

Abby snickers.  Castiel smiles.

“Oh, and I got stuck in an elevator.”  

“In the earthquake?”

“Yes.”  He pulls his phone out of his pocket.  “You ever hear of Hunters?”

“What, like people who shoot deer?”  

“No, like the band.”  He slides it across the floor to show her the photo.  “Couple of brothers out of Kansas.”

Abby picks up the phone and scrolls down, skimming the article.  “You got stuck in an elevator with them?”

“Just the short-haired one.”

“And?”

“And he knew my old stuff, so I made him take his shirt off to show me his tattoos.”  

She lowers the phone.  “Cas--”

“Abby, no,” he says, snatching it back.  “This is not a Balthazar situation.”

“ _ How is it not a Balthazar situation? _ ”

“Because queer guys watch porn and the Internet is a thing?  Honestly, if having seen me fuck for money is a dealbreaker, I’d have to take a vow of celibacy.”

She sets her jaw.  He sighs.

“Abby, just...let me have this, okay?”

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”     

“Yes, and then you’ll be disbarred and go to prison, and I’ll visit you once a month,” he says, getting to his feet.  “I’m going to bed. Thanks for the coffee.”

 

#

 

Dean stretches out on his couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering just above the screen.  He’s been agonizing over this for the better part of the morning. And half the night before.  

(He might have also looked up a few old videos online, and then closed them.  Because wow, awkward.)

“Screw it,” he mutters, and taps SEND.

 

**> _Hey._**

< _Dean?_

**> _Yeah.  Hi._**

<  _ Hello, Dean.  :) _

**>   _So now you’ve got my number._**

<  _ It would seem so. _

**>   _Don’t sound so excited._**

<  _ If you wanted to hear me, you should have called. _

**>   _Do people even use phones for that anymore?_**

<  _ Dial my number and find out. _

 

“Well shit,” he mumbles.  This would be easier if thinking about Castiel -- well, just “Cas” in his contacts -- didn’t give him the fucking Bambi tingles.  Or if he just wanted to get laid. Not that he doesn’t want Cas to pin him down and nail him to the nearest available surface, but...  

He makes the call.  Puts it on speaker and lets it ring.  

“Hello again, Dean.”

“Hey.”  He glances up at the clock.  “I wasn’t sure if eleven was too early, but I figured might as well, uh, you know.  Get you my number and stuff.”

“Should I be offended you needed to sleep on it?”

“If I said texting earlier might feel presumptuous?”  

Castiel’s laugh is warm, and sets the butterflies back off in abundance.

“So, um.  You still in LA?”  

“Sadly I flew out last night.”  

Dean’s heart sinks.  “Is this where you break my heart and tell me you live in Maine or something?”  

“Only if San Francisco magically transported itself to the Eastern seaboard in the night.”

“That’d be one hell of an earthquake.”  He takes a breath. “So, uh. Hey. I was originally going to ask if you wanted to grab brunch or something--”

“Brunch?”  

His face goes hot.  “--which obviously I do not do, despite being a queer man who has lived in Los Angeles for fifteen years.”  

“Agua fresca?”

“I’m a convert.”

“Sushiritto?”

“Not as good as Kogi.”

“Small dogs?”

“Is 50 lbs small?”

“No, but that you ask is informative.”

“Awesome.  Are we done?  Because I gave up that fragile masculinity shit when I quit talking to my asshole, alcoholic, homophobic father, and -- oh yeah -- you live in fucking  _ San Francisco. _ ”

Castiel laughs again.  “I like you, Dean.”

“Good,” he says with a grin.  “Because next time you’re in town, I’m renting a goddamn yorkie and taking you to brunch in fucking WeHo in short shorts out of  _ spite _ .”

 

#

 

Dean’s whistling when he walks into the studio.  It must be loud enough for Charlie to notice, because she pulls her headphones down around her neck and glares.

“I thought we made a deal, Winchester: no Grindr on school nights.”  

He drops his jacket and backpack on the studio couch.  “Deal’s still in effect.”

“Like hell it is.”  

“Check my phone,” he says, tossing it to her.  “And anyway, it’s, like, three in the afternoon.”

“Like that matters.”  Dean watches as her irritation gives way to curiosity.  “Hold up. Who’s Cas?”

“Remember I told you I got stuck in an elevator when Bobby and I were meeting up with the label about the solo thing?”

“Uh huh.”  

“I wasn’t alone.”  

“Dean, please tell me you didn’t bang some rando in an elevator.”  

“I did not, on this particular occasion, bang some rando in an elevator.  I may have taken off my shirt, though.”

She tosses the phone back with a disgusted groan.  “So I’m assuming he’s hot.”

“Google ‘Angel Drazen’ and you tell me.”  

The glee he feels during the seconds between Charlie turning toward her laptop and the search results coming up is only exceeded by the sheer goddamn delight that he feels when she shouts,  _ “HOLY SHIT, DEAN, YOU’RE SEXTING A PORN STAR.” _

“ _ Ex _ -porn star.  He’s a writer now.”  

“For what, Penthouse?”

“Try Tor,” he says, and pulls a paperback --  _ The Whispering Night --  _ out of his backpack.  “You like J.C. Novak, right?”

She stands up and snatches the book out of his hand, then flips it open to the inside back cover to gape at the small black-and-white author photo.  

“And for the record, we are not  _ sexting _ .”  He pauses. __ “Yet.  Mostly.”  

“I can’t believe you got stuck in an elevator with J.C. Novak and  _ took off your shirt _ .”  She drops the book on top of his backpack.

“He wanted to see my tattoos!”

She throws her hands up in despair and storms back to the mixing desk.

Dean smirks and pushes back up onto his feet.  “Hey, do you think he’d give me spoilers in bed if I asked?”  

“Just...go get your guitar or something.”

“Spoilsport.”  

“The spoil _ sportiest _ .  Now stop traumatizing me.  We’ve got work to do.”

 

#

 

There’s a Horacio Jones quote about the comfort and security of solitude, and how relationships are in competition with it, that Castiel thinks of often.

His life here in San Francisco is so different from his old life in LA.  The relative quiet of it, socially at least, is something he’d never had working in porn.  Or even before really, given the chaos of his household growing up. He’s come to see his time as valuable.  Not in an over-the-top 80’s movie blowhard sort of way, but in a holistic way.

Introversion, yes, but also a protective impulse.  He wants to work, he needs the literal emotional and physical space to do it, and he just doesn’t have the bandwidth to string vampires along.

The ease with which Dean’s (admittedly digital) presence has become a part of his life is curious.  His little messages throughout the day bring a smile. Their evening chats leave him feeling equal parts loved and sated.  They’ve barely been at this for a week, but already Dean just...fits.

(He’s even downloaded a couple of Hunters albums to listen to while he works.  It’s not quite his usual fare, but he likes the way it moves, and knowing that Dean helped make it.)

“Good day?” he asks as he settles back on top of the comforter.  He puts the phone down on the pillow next to him and closes his eyes, imagining what it would be like for Dean to be here beside him.    

“Productive day.  Charlie keeps picking everything I did in Berlin apart track by track.  It’s exhausting.”

“Ouch.”

“Well, yeah.  But she’s good.  There’s just gonna be a trail of murdered darlings between here and having a finished record.”  

“Sounds like Bela,” Cas says, a fond smile playing across his lips.  “The first time I got a draft back from her, I spent almost a week oscillating between righteous fury and wondering if I should just jump off a bridge.”  

“How’d you get through it?”

“Spite, mostly.”  

Dean’s laugh makes his heart feel full.

“Hey, uh.  I don’t know if this is too soon, but I’ve got a couple of friends playing up there on Thursday night, and I was thinking of coming up for the show.  You want to make a long weekend of it? It’s not  _ brunch _ , but--”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it’s too soon, or--”

“Yes, I would love to spend a long weekend with you.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Dean lets out a sigh of relief.  “Awesome.”

“That said,” Cas says as he opens his eyes, “I should probably loop you in on a thing.”

“A thing?”  

“More of a complicating factor.”  He sits up, takes the phone off speaker.  “Honestly, it’s probably time to talk about it anyway.”

“Dude, if you’re poz, I’m cool with th--”

He chokes out an awkward laugh.  “Good to know, but um. No.”

“Okay.”  

“A couple of months after I moved here, I met someone at a bar.  He recognized me -- like you did -- and we had a few drinks. I liked him, so we went back to his place.”  

“I’m guessing that didn’t go great.”  

“In retrospect?  No. It did not.”  Cas looks around his room, trying to find the words.  Ironic, given his living, but...well. “We were drunk, and while he crossed some lines, he wasn’t violent.  I put it down to first hookup awkwardness and let it slide.”

“So you kept seeing him.”  

“Yes.”

“And it got worse.”  

“It did.”  He moves back against the headboard, pulls his knees up.  He’s glad Dean can’t see him like this, even if he wants to talk about it.  “The thing you have to understand about Balthazar is that he was incredibly skilled.  He’d been working the sick underbelly of the mainstream industry for years. He was a genius at figuring out what weaknesses he could exploit, how to give me just enough of what I wanted to make me stay.  By the time it got violent, he was completely in my head. My sister, Abby, is probably the only reason I’m still alive.”

“Shit,” Dean whispers.  “Cas, if we need to slow down--”

“No.  I...I like where things are going with us.  I just need you to know this because it’ll help you understand what you’re walking into.”

“Absolutely man.  Whatever you need.”  

“Actually, I was thinking more about what you’ll need.”  

“Me?”

“Yes.  When you meet Abby.”  

 

# 

 

Dean doesn’t know San Francisco well, but one thing he  _ does  _ know is that he’s got a better chance of winning the Powerball than he does finding a spot in front of the narrow Mission District row house where Cas and his sister live.

Fortunately, it’s a nice night.  Like, walking hand-in-hand with his hot boyfriend nice.  He’s not sure he’s that lucky -- or that he and Cas are technically boyfriends yet -- but daydreaming about it made the long drive up the I-5 a hell of a lot more enjoyable.  

He finds a spot a couple of blocks away, checks the signage to make sure he’s not going to find his Baby towed in the morning, and pulls out his phone.

 

**> _Just parked.  Should be there in ten._**

< _ I promise to say nice things in your eulogy if Abby gets the door first. _

**> _Damn straight._**

 

Dean gets out of the car.  He’s gone over, point by point in his head, why he’s not a dick with a hard-on for mindfucking his boyfriends.  It’s a useless exercise -- it’s not like a damn slideshow is going to put Cas’ sister at ease -- and the closer to the address he gets, the more his nerves kick in.  He tells himself it’s like stage fright. All he’s got to do is rip the Band-Aid off and he’ll be fine.

He climbs the steps.  Rings the bell. And then everything goes out of his head the minute the door opens.

“You must be Dean.”

He opens his mouth.  Closes it.

Abby’s hair is almost violently red, but despite it Dean can clearly see the resemblance: striking blue eyes, ample lips, athletic build.  She’s dressed in jeans and a sweater, but her stance is anything but casual. Maybe it’s the enclosed stoop, or just her sheer presence, but he feels pinned to the spot.

“Well, aren’t you a charmer.”  She crosses her arms and sizes him up.  “Given how much time Castiel’s spent on the phone with you, I assumed you’d have all kinds of interesting things to say.”  

“He does, given the opportunity,” Cas says, descending the stairs.  He’s harried, fingers in his hair either in an effort to tame it or rumple it further.  “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas.”  

“Abby, this is Dean.”  He grabs a jacket from a hook by the door before pushing past her onto the stoop.  “Dean, this is my sister Abby, who despite being an attorney with an intimate understanding of the consequences, is considering murdering you.”  

“Attorney, huh?” he manages, Cas’ presence breaking the spell.  “My brother’s a law student at Stanford. What’s your specialty?”

“Criminal prosecution.”

Dean winces.  “Right.”

He startles when Cas laces their fingers together, eyes flicking down, then up to see Cas’ smug grin.  Dean lets himself be led down the steps.

“I’ll text in the morning.  Don’t wait up,” Cas calls over his shoulder.  

They’re halfway down the street before Dean bursts into nervous laughter.  “God damn, you’re awesome.” He reaches up to touch Cas’ face, fingers nervously skirting over his cheekbone.  He hesitates for the barest moment before leaning in for a tentative kiss. Cas returns it gently, but his hands tell another story: fingers clutching at Dean’s jacket like a life raft as he pulls their bodies closer.

“You’re going to make us late,” Cas murmurs when they break apart.  

“Don’t care.”  

“Are you sure?”  Cas bites his lip and slips a hand in under the edge of Dean’s jacket, then leans in close to whisper in his ear.  “You know the only way to see if I fuck on the first date is to take me on an actual date.”

“That is...a really good point,” he replies, eyes wide.

“I thought so.”  Cas takes him by the hand and gestures at the path ahead.  “Shall we?”

 

# 

 

There’s a flurry of introductions when they arrive at the bar.  

Dean seems to know everyone.  Anyone he doesn’t know gets introduced by Garth and Bess, the friends Dean’s up here to see.  Before he knows it, Cas finds himself at a table up on the mezzanine with a drink in his hand, surrounded by friendly chaos.  It’s fun, like his time in LA, but with less pressure.

He scoots his chair closer to Dean’s.  “This makes me want to leave the house more,” he says, leaning in close enough to say it into his ear without shouting over the opening band.

“Is that a good thing?”

“I have no idea.”  

By the time Garth and Bess slip away to prepare for their own set, he’s pleasantly buzzed and listening to Dean and Victor reminisce about the horrors of touring: crowded vans, bad motels, etc.

“What about you, Cas.  You travel?” Victor asks.

“A little.  I’ve done a couple of book tours.”

“Yeah?  What’s that like?”  

“About the same in bad motels, alcohol, and couch surfing.  Fewer cops. Less tinnitus.”

Victor grins.  He’s about to say something when the crowd erupts in cheers as Garth and Bess emerge on stage.  She’s carrying an acoustic guitar. Garth, on the other hand...

“Is that--”

“A keytar?” Dean deadpans.  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  
  


#   

 

Halfway through the third band of the night, Dean leans into Cas’ space.  “Want to head out and grab a bite?”

“Sounds good.  Have anything in mind?”

Dean shrugs.  “I’m easy.”

“Are you?”  Cas says, arching a single brow.

Dean feels his face go hot, but he grins and shrugs.

After some wandering and deliberation, they duck into a place that does pizza by the slice.  Food and soda in hand, they find a spot to hunker down against a bike rack.

“This could probably be more romantic,” Dean says, glancing over his shoulder as a pack of noisy clubgoers wander past.

“You’d rather do this by candlelight?”  

“Would you?”    

“Not really.”  Cas picks at a slice of pepperoni, gently prising it up from the cheese before offering it to Dean.  “Nothing against conventional romance, but this is nice.”

“Nice enough I can show you just how easy I am?”  

“I thought you’d never ask.”  

 

# 

 

They check into the first decent place they can find and don’t waste time on the way to the bed.   

Cas shakes out of his own jacket before pushing Dean’s down over his shoulders.  He pulls Dean up along with him onto the mattress, impatient to touch him.

Dean laughs, going where he’s led.  “Aren’t you going to let me take my boots off?”  

“Later,” he says, dropping back so Dean can straddle him.  “You know I’ve been thinking about this since that day in the elevator?”  

“Yeah?”  

“Mmm.”  He runs his hands up under Dean’s shirt, sitting up to help him take it off.  He tosses it down past the foot of the bed. “All those tattoos, all those pretty freckles.  There isn’t a part of you I don’t want to get to know.”

Dean flushes pink.  He helps Cas out of his shirt, mind reeling at how he’s revealing skin that he’s seen a million times but never thought he’d touch.  His fingers glide down Cas’ torso, pausing on an unfamiliar tattoo on his ribs.

“It’s magic,” Cas says, arching to show it off.

“Yeah?”  He looks up, meets Cas’ eyes.  “You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re not naked enough,” Cas says, and pulls him down for a kiss.

 

# 

 

Dean wakes up slowly, warm and comfortable.  He loves his memory foam, but a good hotel bed is something special.  Even better, he’s sore in all the right places. 

Oh, and he smells coffee.  

He stretches and opens his eyes to the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen: Cas, mug in hand, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

Specifically, the shirt Dean wore to the show last night.  

“Is it still a walk of shame if you’re shameless?” he asks, sitting up.  

“Are you asking because I’m a shirt thief, or because I did porn?”

“I’m asking because you’re a writer, and my car is ten blocks away.”

“Congratulations on your excellent answer.”  He pours another cup of coffee; Dean accepts gladly.

“Are you like this every morning?”  

Cas sits down beside him.  “Stick around and find out.”  

 


End file.
